Upon a Pale Horse
by DarkPoot
Summary: A satyr and a goblin make their way to the Southfury River in a rapidly ending world.Specifically based on DotA, but any Warcraft knowledge should do. Third place entry in DotaPortal's first fanfic competition.


The goblin and the satyr ran as fast as they could. Though they could no longer feel the heat of the fires at their backs, they could still hear each scream with enough clarity to identify its screamer. If they were being pursued, then at least they were evading their pursuers; Boush stumbled, his heavy cybernetic backpack squealing and raining sparks. He stopped running, his hands on his knees as he caught his breath; he signaled to the satyr to duck with him behind one of the forest's huge trees, and they went.

"Did you ever talk to Darchrow much?" Boush asked. He slid his backpack off with a loud thud, turning to it with a wrench and a screwdriver. Rikimaru wondered if the combat suit actually needed repairs or if Boush just needed something to distract him for a minute; at any rate, the goblin didn't seem to notice the torrent of blood pouring out of his forehead.

"Never," the satyr answered, brushing at a wet spot on his own head; the hand came back bright red. He immediately got out a bandage and went to work. "Honestly, I didn't even know he could talk."

"If you were an elemental of cosmic destruction, you'd have trouble making conversation, too." Boush stopped to wipe at his brow, the blood only occurring to him so much as it was getting in his eyes. "But he's seen some shit in his day, too. Used to talk about other worlds. Not just in the Nether, either; no, he'd talk about other Azeroths, worlds like ours with just little differences."

"Uh huh?" Riki passed the bandage around his head one more time and tied it off as his trainer had taught him, with the knot directly over the wound for that extra, blood-stopping pressure.

"Apparently somewhere out there, there's an Azeroth where Medivh – check that, Medivh! – set it up so that all the leaders of the different races, Jaina, Thrall, Furion and them – got together and pushed the Legion back from the World Tree. More than that, even! Killed their general and sent the whole Burning bunch of 'em packing with their nuts all saggy!"

"And you mention this, why?"

"No good reason, really. Just, ya' know…" Boush said, allowing himself one quick glimpse around the side of the tree at the camp that had been their home for so long, now burning along with that towering, all-important tree at its center. Nordrassil, the World Tree, burning to the ground. "…Kinda' wish we lived there right now. And I figure if I don't keep my mouth busy, I'm likely to start screaming." He said this with the same calm regularity with which he would mention the weather. He pocketed his tools and slid his backpack on, pulling the straps taut. "And if I start, I don't know if I'll be able to stop. On that note, I suggest we get the hell out of here."

Riki peered around the side of the tree, the orange firelight flickering off the sweat and grime on his face. "In a minute," he said, looking back at the goblin with a look of cold determination on his face. "We should wait for Gondar."

Boush paused for only a second, remembering two moments with crystal clarity before he could suppress them. In one memory, he saw the three of them, Riki, Gondar, and Boush, drinking after a victory in the valley and talking happily about old times. He also recalled the dull splashing sound that the draenei's intestines had made, not ten minutes ago, as a demon witch had twisted his body apart.

Boush pushed the thoughts out of his mind. "Gondy can take care of himself. We need to relocate, and fast."

Neither knew where they were going, where in the world they could possibly go, but Riki raised no objections; he would never sit still and wait for death, not even at this late hour. Not even at the End.

And with Hell burning at their backs, they fled.

Defense of the Ancients

Upon a Pale Horse

They ran down the slopes of Hyjal, negotiating a path that had grown feral and crooked with the eons. The woods around them stood as quiet and still as sculpture; no wildlife rustled through the leaves, no crickets or nightbirds chirped. None of this surprised Boush; his own despair was threatening to tear him apart, and he imagined that the very trees and shrubs would have fled this once-sacred place had they not been rooted down.

They fled in silence; fortunately, Boush did not start screaming as forecast. Riki kept expecting Dread Lords, Doom Guards, and every other fiend of the infernal rainbow to erupt out of the ground and set the forest aflame, but he and his companion remained the only sign of life he could discern in those woods. That did not concern him right at that moment, though.

He had traveled a lot in his day, but only "on the job" – killing someone and vacating the area as fast as possible. He had not had any actual home or harbor of his own since his youth among the satyr – and he imagined his childhood friends had wasted no time joining the Legion. In other words, he had no place to go. Boush, at least, seemed to have an idea where he was going, and that was just fine with Riki; wherever the goblin planned to go, at least one of them had connections, and somehow, things would work out.

An hour or two later the foothills of the mountain began to slope away, and their path spilled out into Ashenvale.

Ashenvale was just as quiet.

"There's a shadow over everything," Riki muttered, frowning as he looked out into the woods.

"It's night, dumb-ass," Boush said; he instantly wished he had kept his mouth shut. He wanted to laugh, wanted to make fun and get back to the usual, but he realized only too well what the satyr was talking about. The forest was, in fact, brighter than usual for that hour of night. A dull red light flickered from the summit of Hyjal, bathing the forest in a nightmarish glow.

"The World Tree burns." Rikimaru sounded almost in a trance – or maybe he was going to be sick, Boush couldn't decide – as he turned to look back the way they came. Still he saw no sign of pursuit. "This world will burn with her."

Boush had no reply for that. He turned just as Riki did, staring back up the slopes of Mount Hyjal, thanking whatever shreds of Heaven were left that they could only see that constant red flicker over the tree tops – that they could not see the unworldly horrors dancing and reveling at the summit. Sooner or later, those horrors would stampede down the slopes and make a quick work of the rest of the world, their only serious impediment now destroyed; it would be too much, he thought, to see that swarm now, might even be too much for the wind to shift so that he could hear their jubilant howls and horrible, screaming laughter.

Boush didn't know how long they stared at that mesmerizing glow, but he knew they had no more time to waste. "Come on," he said, taking out a compass. "I want to be riding the Southfury by sunrise, so we're heading… uh… oh…. no no no [ino[/i…"

"What?" Riki asked. Boush shook the compass, first gently and then very violently; he made a frustrated, muffled noise in his throat that sounded too much like a scream for the satyr's comfort. He snatched the compass away and saw the needle spinning on its axis, not at a constant speed but in pulses, fast, then slow, fast, then slow, as if with the beating of a heart.

"Huh…who'd have ever thought we'd outlive cardinal directions," Riki mused. Boush still looked panicked, and Riki could guess why. Boush was born into a rational world, run by gears and math figures; the goblin knew nothing of the chaos and entropic magic so engrained in the satyrs' heritage, a heritage that had taught Rikimaru of Felwood when to shield the eyes of his rational mind. The World Tree was lost; the stitching of reality and order was already starting to unravel, and he knew that they would see sights far stranger than broken compasses on the journey to come.

"Don't worry, I know these woods a little," Riki said, discreetly dropping the compass and kicking it aside. Boush didn't notice. "If we follow this path south a little further, we'll intersect with another; we turn left there and follow, we'll not only get to the river, but a dock with boats, too…" He decided to ask, after all. "I assume you have a destination in mind?"

Boush shook his head quickly to clear his mind, and gave a quick sigh. "Yeah…yeah, I've got one. Listen…I…" He took one more breath as he turned back to their path with the satyr; Riki heard a distinct shudder in his breath as it let out. "These boats…I get to be captain, right?"

Riki laughed. He knew that that sense of humor, however poor and untimely, could keep the goblin alive for a little while longer, and he wanted to encourage it. "Of course. I don't have a captaining bone in my body, myself."

"Good, good. My cousins always tell me I should look to a more oceanic calling; all traders and merchant sailors on that side of the family." Boush laughed, taking a missile out of his pockets and stroking it with affection. "None of that for me, of course, but hopefully we'll be able to book passage with them when we get to Ratchet."

"Ratchet?" Riki asked. He slowly began to pick up the pace, stretching his legs out further on each stride; he felt bad, knowing that the goblin would have trouble keeping up with his heavy pack and his stubby legs, but they needed the speed. "That's in the middle of the Barrens. Not exactly around the corner."

"No, but it's the closest port. My thinking is that even the Burning Legion will need some time to chew on Kalimdor. We can use that time to plan our next move."

Riki nodded. "Sounds good, captain."

It took them about two and a half hours to reach the river, and this estimation came with two unsettling notes. Exact timekeeping was apparently no longer possible, for one: Boush had had not only a pocket watch but an Everlook Time-Tron with an Arcanite core. It was supposed to lose one second of accuracy about every thousand years, and that claim was backed by a money-back guarantee – almost unheard of with goblin goods, particularly goods so expensive, but the nearly infallible watches of Everlook had reason to boast.

It stopped, and that had been one thing. Boush had sighed and put it back in his pocket, as if burying a faithful old dog. It started up again an hour or so later, though, ticking madly backwards and forwards in chaotic alternation. Boush gave it only one look before he tossed it into a pile of rocks, turning his head as it shattered and never looking back.

There was more, too; Boush mentioned it first. "So, the sun on vacation today or what?"

Riki had noticed; by his calculation, it was about seven bells, maybe an hour and a half since the last incident with the watch. Seven bells on a summer morning like that should have had the sun riding well over the horizon, but the sky stayed dark. "Vacation, maybe," he said. "Or just sleeping late for once. I don't know." Riki narrowed his eyes at the sky and found that it was lightening up after all, but not by any approaching dawn. He could not decide the word for the red lines beginning to stretch across the sky, whether he should call them cracks or veins – whether the sky was breaking apart or coming to hellish life. He was sure, at least, that he would see them stretch out and multiply before long, and that that dull, almost imperceptible red light in those lines would grow brighter. He couldn't let himself believe that this world was going to fizzle out into darkness, after all – oh, no. They were to be swallowed and gorged upon by the madness Beyond. A satyr's life had more horror in it than most, but Rikimaru knew that he would still drown on his screams when he saw what finally became of that sky.

Cracks or veins, Boush didn't notice them yet, and for that much at least, Riki was thankful. "I'm wondering if the old girl's retired altogether." He paused, long enough for Riki to decide that no, the goblin had no hope at all for seeing the sun again. Boush forced himself to finish. "…A-and if there's no sun…what will ever happen to my geraniums back home?"

Riki nodded in mock solemnity. Boush seemed to be loosening up more and more – he rather wondered why that was, but he would rather have an inexplicably calm goblin companion than a slobbering lunatic goblin companion, particularly considering the high explosives Boush carried with him. "I'm afraid this is the end for your geraniums, Boush. I only…"

Riki came to a total, immediate stop, his body freezing in place. Boush didn't seem to notice this sudden change, either, and kept talking.

"I'm going to write the Legion a very unhappy letter. This end-of-the-world platform they're pushing – I want 'em to know I think it sucks…Riki?" Boush came about a hair's width from total panic, thrashing his head from side to side and not seeing the satyr anywhere.

"Keep talking," the satyr whispered next to him, gently laying an invisible hand on his shoulder to affirm he was there. "There's someone up ahead – hiding. We don't want them to know we know it."

"Please…please don't do that again," Boush whispered back, rubbing his forehead and drawing in deep, relieved breaths.

"By the riverside, in between the old willow and the briar," Boush muttered before he set forward with one leaf crunching underfoot – the only sign, however hard one looked, of his advance. Boush got off the trail and backed up against a tree, stealing one glance at the riverside before the tree blocked out everything. The satyr was right – wrapped up in some kind of cloak or robe, a figure was sitting right there on the riverbank. Boush realized he had mistaken it for a rock, and further realized that without the satyr's prompting, Boush never would have registered the shape as a person – not until it sprang whatever trap it had planned, that is.

Boush took out a rocket and loaded it into the machinery on his back. He suddenly had a very bad feeling about that figure and those docks, suddenly wanted them both to be very far away.

[iKeep talking.[/i "…and…uh…I lost a lot of good stuff in that camp. Schematics, prototypes, and fifteen issues of Booty Bay [i_Gentleman[/i_." Boush smiled a little despite himself. Maybe Riki's heritage let him deal with the unraveling of the world a little better than him, but a goblin could sure as hell feign sincerity when the situation or customer required it. "Vintage issues, before the prudes took over!" He looked toward the river again, seeing a vague ripple in the air moving toward the hidden figure; one could only have perceived the satyr moving and not think it a trick of the eyes if one knew exactly where and when to look, and even then, one would have to be lucky. "Now the [i_Gentleman[/i _girlscan't do half the stuff they could back then! I'm going to expect full reimbursement whenever we…"

"That's enough, tinker." The thing on the riverbank had spoken, and Boush stopped immediately. He knew its voice, knew it very well. "I'd not have you die speaking of such things."

Boush felt a warm wetness spread quickly in his pants, having time to appreciate the almost artistic alchemy of terror which formed in the next few seconds. Gondar slowly stood up from the riverside and pulled back his camouflage hood, and Riki dropped his stealth close by. The idiot satyr had a smile on his face, and why not? Boush hadn't told him about the witch and the red lightning that had literally turned the draenei's body inside-out. Boush now saw the faint red glow in Gondar's eyes, and the crude stitching that held his face together; he wondered how many more stitches were hidden underneath his robe, or what other demonic devices and signs would be wrought on that dead flesh. Gondar was dead, after all – extremely dead – but Riki didn't know it, and hadn't that been Boush's idea of mercy?

The thing lurched toward Riki, and Boush doubted that he – [iit[/i – would show so much mercy. "Gondar! What…what happened to you?" Riki asked, and Boush cursed – he'd been trained and trained and trained to be a fast-acting killer, but his guard was down.

"It's not him, you idiot!" Boush shouted desperately, shaking off his fear and breaking cover – he knew he was too late.

"Riki," Gondar muttered as he stepped in front of the satyr, face to face. "Riki…I'm so sorry."

The robe flew back off his shoulders, and his arms – the two on his shoulders and the new, freakish third sewn onto his waist – erupted out with their knives.

Even as the blades struck out, the glint of steel was enough for Riki; he was dazed and uncertain, but deep in his heart, something clicked. He was in combat now, and his body knew what to do even when his mind locked up.

He pivoted on one heel, spinning as best he could out of the knives' way. One, held by that bizarre waist-arm, still managed a solid slice against his ribs, but Riki still felt lucky; the stroke had been intended for his heart. He drew his scimitar, holding it out in a defensive stance as he turned back to Gondar. The Draenei had put two of his knives away, his fingers resting gingerly on his belt. Riki knew Gondar's fighting style, and he knew that if he ever let his guard down enough to give the bounty hunter a clear shot, he'd find a shuriken lodged in his throat or liver before he could even register the mistake.

"So, Gondy?" Boush asked, leveling a cybernetic arm and fixing his quarry in the crosshairs. The two assassins didn't seem to acknowledge him, but Boush knew they both had eyes in the backs of their heads. "What kind of market price can you get for the soul of a good man?"

Still holding a knife out at Riki with that third arm, Gondar slowly turned his head and gave Boush a sideways glance. "I never signed nor sold myself to demons, Boush – think not that – but demons ate my soul regardless."

Rikimaru's scimitar did not waver; his hand remained calm and steady, bolstering his strength as grief threatened his resolve. "What…do you want us to do, Gondar?"

Gondar's head tilted as he looked back at Riki. He and Boush both saw the red twinkle in the draenei's dead eyes; he growled the next part with faint hunger. "I want you to put your blade down, Rikimaru, unless it suits you to die with weapon in hand. I want you to find a strong tree to prop yourself against, that you may die on your feet. I know that has long been a dream of yours, has it not?" Gondar paused to suck in air, his throat letting out an unnatural rattle. "Then I will put a knife into your heart, Riki, and one into yours, Boush…and since we are [ifriends[/i…I will set your bodies on fire, and then scatter your ashes…that you might never suffer as I do…

"Unless, of course, you can set me free of this rotting shell," Gondar finished, dipping two hands into unseen pockets and pulling out a handful of shuriken. "But with the End of Ends so near, I hardly see the point…"

Boush had heard enough; he pressed a button on his arm's console and a salvo of missiles flew out at the bounty hunter. Gondar leapt into the air, throwing his shuriken at the rockets just as their homing circuits kicked in; they had barely begun to tilt up and follow him before a throwing star lodged in each one, sending them wheeling off course to explode uselessly.

Riki leapt after him, and Boush had no time to fix Gondar in his sights again; both assassins vanished from his sight as the distance between them closed. The tinker kept his eyes in the crosshair display on his arm, but he imagined it pointless. By the time either of them appeared again, the battle would be over – either Riki would appear alive with Gondar dead at his feet, or Riki would appear dead shortly before Gondar, most likely still invisible, jammed a knife into Boush's chest as promised.

The snapping of twigs and the patter of feet – what Boush guessed did not actually indicate the assassins' positions, but rather provided distraction. There would be no prolonged exchange of blows here, he knew; they had both been trained to make the one critical strike, to wait until the proper time and then slash into a vital organ or blood vessel.

[iGondar's dead, though,[/i Boush thought. [iDoesn't that make Riki's fighting style useless?[/i

Another quick noise, a snicker-snack of blades, as Riki deflected a shuriken attack. By the time Boush registered what this meant, that Gondar had determined Rikimaru's position and that the shuriken were likely only a further means of distraction as he closed in for the kill, the duel had all but ended. Riki phased back into vision about twenty meters to Boush's right, blood spilling quickly out of his stomach as he toppled to his knees. The blood gave some vague shape to the otherwise invisible knife sticking out of his abdomen.

The satyr looked up at Boush as the bloody knife sucked its way out of him, falling to the ground with a clang and a thud; to Gondar, it would only be a liability, a tag on his position. Riki just kept his eyes locked on Boush, and as his shaking hand crept down to his belt, he mouthed one word.

[iNow![/i

The satyr's hand flew out from his belt, hurling a tiny black something at the ground – a smoke bomb, judging by the huge blue pillows of mist that erupted out from the dirt at his knees. Boush wasn't sure he understood, but then he saw the outline taking shape behind Riki.

Boush had no time to admire the satyr's ingenuity. He grabbed his other cyber-arm and swung it around to the front, hardly even looking at the crosshairs – no time, he decided, he would have to trust his hands to the aiming – as he quickly primed the arm's weapon systems.

There was no farewell speech – no curse nor blessing, no acceptance nor resistance, no fury nor relief. The laser exorcised all of Gondar's possible farewells: Boush had aimed true, and the blue beam vaporized his head instantaneously. The draenei's twisted body instantly phased back into view, and even through the dense blue smoke, Boush could clearly see Gondar's arms, so rigorously trained and deadly, striking out at the air with their last combative instinct. Then, nothing; his body fell still, and never moved again.

When he heard the body collapse, Riki finally allowed himself to look around. He turned to Boush with a feeble smile. "Nice shot."

"I work well under pressure," Boush dismissed, rummaging through his fanny pack as he walked over to the satyr, who was clutching his wounded stomach very closely. "You don't look so good yourself."

"I'm not," Riki admitted, sitting up with a scowl; blood continued to seep through his fingers without any sign of slowing. "He was going for my liver, and I anticipated that, tried to defend, and knocked his strike off its mark. He got my stomach instead…"

Boush nodded, either ignoring or not detecting the note of grim finality in Rikimaru's voice. "Well, Nurse Boush has just what you need, then. Here – I brought a few bottles of that sapphire healing water from camp. Take two and call me in the…" Boush stopped as he took one of the vials out of his pack. The water, once a sparkling, vaguely luminescent blue had darkened into a murky gray, with dull yellow bubbles frothing around the edges.

Riki sighed. "That which was sacred shall be profaned; that which was pure shall be sullied." He took the bottle out of Boush's hands and threw it into the woods. He then nodded toward the docks. "Well, captain, we have our ship. Where to now?"

"You sure you can travel, man?" Boush asked, unable to take his eyes for long off the blood still gushing out of Riki's stomach.

Riki just chuckled. "I don't know – stomach's a tricky place for a wound. Sometimes it's death in a few minutes, sometimes death in a few days. But like Gondar said, with 'the End of Ends so near'…"

Boush nodded. "Ratchet. If my cousins are there, we get a boat from them; if not, we steal any boat we find, any shit-heap that floats will do. We get you a healer, and then it's off to Booty Bay, with all due haste."

Riki held one blood-stained hand out; he needed help to get up. "Booty Bay…you say it like you have something big planned for it."

"Oh, I do." Boush sneered, offering one of his backpack's clunky metallic hands for support. Riki took it eagerly, and together they made their way to the docks. "I used to work in a bar there, 'The Salty Sailor' – shitty place with shitty hours, but the owner always claimed he'd be open on Judgment Day."

"I hope he lives up to his word, then," Riki said.

"Hope, my ass!" Boush shouted as he took out a small blow torch and burnt off the rope connecting their rowboat to the dock. He grabbed the rope in his hand and helped the satyr in. "I don't care if I have to drag old Finnegan out of Sargeras's mouth myself, that bar's gonna be open, and we're gonna go there and we're gonna drink!"

Riki nodded sleepily, lying back as best he could in the cramped boat. The blood still hadn't slowed down.

"After that, we wander around a bit – we'll have our pick of the brothels. Pretty much any race you ever wanted to put it in, I'm sure we can dig something up, and believe me, they look better after we've had a few."

Boush grabbed both oars, pushing away from the dock with one and starting to row. The Southfury was still flowing south, at least, and at quite a pace, at that. Riki closed his eyes on the other side of the boat, nodding again.

"I…imagine. Anything…anything else on the itinerary?"

"Then we visit the dens and get stoned out of our minds, of course. We repeat the process as we see fit – feel free to change up the order if you like – again and again. We find booze we can drink, whores we can fuck, and drugs we can take until our minds are proper, useless jelly." Boush nodded to himself now, looking up at the sky out of hopeful reflex. He was almost taken aback – it seemed that the sky was breaking apart in a series of red, jagged cracks – but they'd made it to the boat, and by his rationale they were now home free. "That sound good to you, buddy?"

Riki didn't answer.

Boush took one more look at that shattered sky and then forced his eyes down.

"Next stop, Ratchet."


End file.
